Mars Fusion
by Mike256bit
Summary: Sequel to Virus Edward. Spike and the troupe go out in search of the malfactors responsible for the virus. SMACK DOWN! BAM!
1. One

Mars Fusion  
Mike256bit [mike256bit@hotmail.com]  
  
A Cowboy Bebop based fanfic.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop. . . unfortunately. . .  
  
Warning: Go ahead, I dare ya.  
  
My notes: This is the highly, or at least, requested sequel to "Virus Edward". I was pleased with that one, let's see how this one rolls!  
  
When you get to the "Cowboy Bebop", just think commercial break.  
  
Title 17 of the copyright law applies -- I don't own Cowboy Bebop or its contingents, but I own the story. Y'hear?  
  
Kick it!  
  
--  
  
The bushel of leaves shifted for a moment, revealing it to be an odd toss of hair as Spike coolly walked out from behind a tree. "I hate parks. . ." he muttered, the warm breeze of the Mars spring doing nothing to sate his miserable jive. He stepped out of the brush on his way through a self made short cut -- that left him beaned with a frisbee, dog mess on his shoe and one or two bee stings -- and sat down in a slump on a nearby bench.   
  
Not bothering to root through his suit jacket for cigarettes, (knowing he used them all up by throwing them at the kid who hit him with the frisbee) he instead tentatively pulled off his boot and hobbled over to a nearby water fountain.  
  
"I hate kids. I hate parks. I hate dogs," he grunted, finding that his shoe was hard press to maneuver under the spout of water.   
  
"You sure do hate a lot of shtuff, Mishter."   
  
Wearily he turned to look at a little girl, no more than seven. Her lisp became far more apparent as he set eyes on her. "Are you a kid?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Do you like parks?"  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"Do you own a dog?"  
  
"You bet!"  
  
He leaned down, keeping his face as level as possible while coming inches from her face. "Then I especially hate you."  
  
It wasn't long, a second or two maybe before he reeled back in pain, having been poked viciously in the eye. "You're mean!" the little girl exclaimed, raspberried and trotted off. Spike hissed, whipping his shoe out of the fountain and putting it back on in a ferocious grumble. The little squishy sound that followed really chapped his hide.  
  
"You'll never make friends with that attitude, Spike."  
  
"Shaddup, Jet." The Hammerhead's pilot took a seat on the bench Spike sat on prior, on which Spike then again plopped down. "Your informant going to be here?"  
  
"You bet," Jet mumbled, watching a butterfly float its way through the gentle wind. He grinned, watching it land mockingly on Spike's nose. Spike made no move other than to slowly reach for his gun. "You know," Jet began, his rumbling voice scaring the insect away before Spike to obliterate it, "I think I might like to retire in a place like this."  
  
"It's full of kids," Spike answered dully. "And rainbows. Do you like rainbows, too, Jet?"  
  
Saying nothing, Jet only looked to the street where the screech of tires pulled a car to a halt. The passenger door opened and an ISSP official popped out, looking over to where the two bounty hunters sat. "The informant?" Spike asked, ready to hop to his feet as the man with shades stared at them.  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
However, before either could get going, the official dropped forward, still on the street as the car sped away. Screams of children filled the air as the all ran for their lives. "Oh," Jet mumbled, relaxing back into the bench. "He's dead."  
  
-Session -- : Mars Fusion  
  
  
Faye sat back, sipping at a carton of apple juice she found in the back of the fridge. She could swear 'Motts' was around back when she was a kid. She was also sure they'd gone out of business when she was a kid.   
  
"Eh, I've had worse diseases. This can't kill me." Her brow furrowed as she hit a thick spot, sucking up a solid mass that rammed itself down her throat. She made a face like she'd gotten a bad pistachio and tossed the carton aside. She stuck out her tongue, gagging a bit before reaching under the couch for the whiskey she knew Spike had stashed. Grabbing the quart, she pulled it up and sat back, guzzling a gulp to quell the nasty taste still swirling in her mouth. Her eyes began to burn a bit, but man, that felt good.  
  
She jerked, dropping the remainder to crash to the floor when an ear-splitting call wracked her poor ears. She looked back behind her with a sneer to see Edward wave at her, presenting the telecom in her free hand.   
  
"Mesa-message from-a Spiko and Jetlag!"  
  
"Have you been drinking my whiskey?"  
  
"Nooooope!"  
  
"Oh, that's right," Faye said dryly, snatching away the communicator as her patience for humanity seriously began to dwindle. "You're Ed." Edward arched her eyebrows, stumbling back a bit at she grappled to cover where her heart would be.   
  
"Aghast! Edward has been discovered! Edward is Edward! NOOO!!" Turning, she tripped over the table and fell into a roll, using the momentum to just flip herself out of the room. Faye watched with the look of a stoned teen on Saturday night, her eyebrow twitching ever so slightly as the whiskey below pooled around her heel.   
  
"Kids. . ." She tapped the call-waiting signal with a sigh, a grim smile on her face as Spiko and Jetlag appeared before her. "Hi boys, got any presents for your mistress?" The two stoic stone-faced characters on the screen blinked and looked at each other for a moment as the comment's audacity made itself present in their now irritated expressions.  
  
"Put Edward on," Spike muttered.  
  
"Fine," Faye grumbled, turning to holler. She nearly turned stark white as the said girl was mere centimeters over her shoulder. Faye, still a little shaky, got up and nudged the screen in her direction. "Fuh-for you, Ed. . ." A wide grin on her face, Edward sat and picked up the communicator, getting obnoxiously close to the screen.  
  
"BLORK FADDA WOO WOO MR. PANTS MAN!!"  
  
The two pilots blinked for a moment before turning to look at each other.  
  
"Put Faye on," Spike muttered. Edward nodded appropriately and set the box down, turning to look around. Seeing Faye nowhere, she furrowed her brow as a perplexed curl made way onto her lips. She tipped her head and made a silent 'oohh' as she saw the purple tresses peak up, revealing Faye's concerned eyes.  
  
". . . Are you going to explode?"  
  
Ed shook her head, her goggles tipping back and forth comically. Her grin remained as she back flipped off the couch onto the floor, running backwards and away into the depths of the Bebop. "Alllll youuurssss!! Hssssooooohhhwwww!!" Faye watched with confusion as Ed peeked back in with a smile. "That's backwardsese for 'whoosh!'" She ducked out again as Faye, nerves still rattled, sat back down.   
  
"Alright," Jet's face began, scratching a particularly shiny spot on his head as the Mars day gleamed off his baldness. "Th--"  
  
"Are you guys in a PARK?!"  
  
"Look, shut up and listen," Jet said sternly, looking behind him to make sure the cluster of trees was still keeping them concealed. The sound of children playing, Faye thought, was unusually absent. "Our informant seems to have gotten in over his head."  
  
"He out for bounty?"  
  
"He's dead," Spike said, lighting up a used cigarette he wouldn't dare mention that he'd found in a ashtray.  
  
"Dead?" Faye repeated.  
  
"Shot in the stomach. True sign of a sloppy kill. Too sloppy for the ISSP," Jet murmured, "but sloppy enough for certain Syndicates dealing more in hi-tech horror than in traditional terrorism and mayhem."  
  
"Although, there isn't any more doubt that the ISSP is behind this. This was one of those officials that you couldn't get to unless you were a god."   
  
"Right," Jet confirmed. "Higher ranking, and obviously those involved with the self-destruction of the ISSP simply opened his doors. What I can't figure out, though, is why they want to collapse the place. It's not like they'll get any monetary gain."  
  
"Well," Faye mused, "they're obviously using the Iron Hand and Black Ice Syndicates to set up a frame. Helps those two Syndicates get a name and it takes more scrutiny off the ISSP. Still, Jet's right, what are those in the ISSP trying to gain by degrading the system?"  
  
The two shrugged "All out war -- that was the consensus," Jet supplied.  
  
"Oh, right," Spike nodded. "A Syndicate opens an attack and wham, the whole thing goes to pieces."  
  
"Well," she mumbled, "what did you find out from those two sons of the heads we captured?" She was met with blank stares as she came back from the fumbles she made with her tongue. "Erg, you know. The two who sent the virus. You said they were the sons of those two Syndicates. After all, they can't be very big names if they don't do any coup d'etats, undermining and all that jazzy bullshit."  
  
They both blinked again, turning to look at each other. "I. . . thought you talked to them, Jet."  
  
"I thought you did, Spike."  
  
"Do you think they're still alive?"  
  
"Been days since I've been down on the brig."  
  
"Oh, God, you guys are idiots!" Faye hissed. "Get back to the ship. No wonder we don't have any leads!!"  
  
  
Back in the park, a few miles away from the Bebop's stationing, Jet and Spike were met with angry static as Faye's snappy 'tude reached them even though the transmission had ended. Spike looked back to the body and shrugged, walking over to it. "C'mon, Jet," he mumbled around his cigarette, "lets get cartin'. I'll take care of the boys -- how 'bout you go talk to the Iron Hand?"  
  
"What?" Jet asked, ambling over. "Why should I?"  
  
"I've just got a bad feeling about this collaboration between the Syndicates. I want you to get me some info. Go check with the Iron Hand, I know you've got people in there."  
  
"Alright," Jet sighed, picking up the dead man's legs. "Let's roll."  
  
--  
  
Faye walked ahead of Spike, a pounding becoming clearer with each passing door. Stopping, Faye simply presented a hand to the portal from where all the clanging was coming. Cries like 'Let us out', 'It's dark', and 'It smells like urine' came occasionally before Spike worked the mechanisms to open the port. Immediately he pushed himself in, dragging Faye with him.  
  
Stepping in, he saw the drab lighting, dragging a chair from the corner to a bare table in the middle of the room. Taking a seat, he broke out a pack and lit another one up, glaring at the two captures. "Sit," he ordered, them falling into place across from him. Faye sat on the edge of the table, a little disappointed that she didn't get their rapt attention. They must have been really hungry.  
  
"Alright," Spike mumbled. "Tell what the deal is, Jamison."  
  
The one obviously named Jamison gulped, tugging at his stained and sweaty, rusty shirt collar. Swallowing, he leaned back, his skinny frame dwarfed by the broad chairs. "Me? Why me?"  
  
"Because I said so," Spike said irritably as Faye reached down for a cigarette. She nudged the pack in their direction, almost laughing as they gave questioning and fearful looks toward Spike. "Go ahead," he sighed.  
  
They each took one, flinching equally as much as Faye reached over, purposefully reached over, to give them a light. She grinned, pocketing a lighter, the two shuddered a bit as their first inhale of nicotine in days gave their starving bodies a swim.   
  
"Well, Jamison? Tell me what you know."  
  
"I. . . don't know what you're talking about." Spike looked at him dully, glancing over to Jamison's partner.  
  
"Kenic?"  
  
"We're pawns!" he blurted. Jamison glanced over frightfully, sweat raining off him in an ironic attempt to ruin his cool. "We're just poster boys and delivery types. The ISSP is completely behind it. There's no Syndicate conglomerate, that's all bullshit! Each of our Syndicates have been trying to get that down, but that's only increased a lot of tension. The only partnership is between Jamison, me and the Second File at the ISSP."  
  
"I knew it," Spike hissed, blunting his cigarette on the table, trying to dissipate some of the smoke. "The ISSP is just pulling strings, trying to get rises and make a fuckin' war."  
  
"Second File?" Faye inquired gently, puffing out a billow over Spike's head.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Jamison stuttered, "Kenic's right. The Second File is a security rank that's all for biological and chemical programming. Kenic and I had a collaboration prior to this, and a few rogues at the ISSP tapped into it. We were eventually led to the Second File and delivered a lot of techno-babble about programming. Personally, I didn't understand any of it, but it's the kind of stuff my father had our Syndicate working on."  
  
"Mine too," Kenic, slightly raising his hand.  
  
Spike sighed, an empty pocket forming in the smoke. He looked to Faye and got to his feet. "I need to call Jet back before he gets screwed. I didn't think these guys would be alive. Or at least wouldn't talk so easily." He looked back, seeing them both peer down at the table.  
  
Faye shrugged falling into step next to him. "Well now we confirmed everything. The ISSP is trying to take out crime without looking like a monster."  
  
"Not. . .quite," Spike said. "They just want an excuse for battle. And so far, everything they've done has worked perfectly to set up these Syndicates and create a lot of natural tension without looking suspicious. They're doing a damn good job."  
  
"And why are we going to stop them?"  
  
"Because we can get paid, Faye. The ISSP, general police, government and bounty stations all give us money. And hell, since the ISSP is just as much a bad guy in this now, we can play cowboys for some low level Syndicates. If the ISSP gets what it wants, it's absolute chaos. If crime is so 'wiped out' we won't have any bounties anyway."  
  
Faye stopped at the door, looking at the two nervous fellows who stared back inquisitively. "And them?"  
  
Spike grinned. "We'll leave em' on the ISSP doorstep with signed confessions to treason." The two nearly fainted as the door closed, two chuckles coming from outside.  
  
--  
  
Jet was lead in by a buxom black woman, shades guarding her eyes and an emotionless, flat crease to her lips guarding from any sense of courtesy. She turned away silently, Jet peering back over his shoulder at her before he took a seat in the plush, blue chair facing a large oak desk. Behind the desk was a wall of windows overlooking a murky, gray skyline. The stained hard wood floors were nice, at least. Stained with what, however, wasn't determinable. Pippu, maybe?  
  
"Man, I hate secretaries," he mumbled.   
  
"Jet, you hate everything." He turned as a hand was placed on his shoulder, leading up to an aged, spotted, but smiled face. "Good to see you."  
  
"You too, Ron."  
  
Ron stepped around, taking a seat across from him at the large desk to whom the Iron Hand gratefully supplied. Sighing, he turned his view to the sky for a moment before looking back to a long time friend. "What can I do for you? I got your call, you're lucky I could get you in."  
  
"Info, as always."  
  
"Couldn't do it over the communicator?"  
  
"Hey, gonna hate me for wantin' to see you, buddy?"  
  
"Guess not," the man chuckled, kicking his feet up onto his desk. "Info to spare, Jet."  
  
"I need to know about this conglomeration."  
  
Ron's grin dropped, a serious facade taking over as his hands took place on his lap. "I thought you left the ISSP, Jet."  
  
"I did."  
  
"Then what's this about a conglomeration?"  
  
"I wanna know about it."  
  
"Jet. . . you don't want to take this any further."  
  
"If it's real or not, that's all I want to know--"  
  
The click of a glock stopped him as Ron raised an arm, a disappointed sigh filtering out. "You're not allowed to know, Jet." Jet took a breath, sitting back in his seat. The gun did not waver, Ron sitting just as he was when he was being jovial. "If you find out, you won't leave alive."  
  
Jet almost grinned as he produced a pack of cigarettes, holding the cart in his hand after biting one from the pack. He lit it, taking a long, long drag. "I'm willing to risk that."  
  
--  
  
When the revolution comes, the people will shout "Cowboy Bebop."


	2. Two

Mars Fusion  
Mike256bit [mike256bit@hotmail.com]  
  
A Cowboy Bebop based fanfic.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop. . . unfortunately. . .  
  
Warning: Over-exposure may cause birth defects.  
  
Notes: This is part two. [Sigh.] Not at ALL on demand, but I wanted to finish for MY sake. ^_^  
  
--  
  
Jet snuffed the blunt on his own arm, flicking it across the room as he stared down the angry end of Ron's glock. "Calm down, buddy, I didn't say anything incriminating yet." Jet grinned a bit as the weapon held its steady position, Ron seemingly able to give up on years of friendship for the sake of his own life. A Syndicate would do that to you. "Why'd you even get involved with the Iron Hand, Ron? I didn't think it was your style. You were always all for the fire power back in the ISSP."  
  
"Jet, I know you're smarter than to keep asking questions, so I'll warn you one last time."  
  
The cowboy smirked, not moved by his friends sentimental concern. "Would it matter, Ron? Doesn't look like I'm leaving, period."  
  
Ron too grinned, his glock clicking one more to signify a standby mode. "You do remember me, eh, Black Dog? There are enough men behind that door back there to shoot you to dust, Jet. I don't want to see that, so let's keep this as clean as possible and you keep your mouth shut. After all, you say the wrong thing and we're both dead. . ." Ron's teeth gleamed a bit as he stood, steady arm poised in the air. "And you wouldn't forsake an old friend, I know."  
  
Jet gave him a genuine smile and let his grip overtake the cigarette carton, a click sounding from within the pack. "You're right. Nice office, Ron, what got you these perks? Lotta backstabbing? Did your last victim 'give' you this chair? What's that desk, mahogany?"  
  
"Oak."  
  
"Eh, it's all wood; all dirty when it comes from those you've slain."  
  
"Shut it, Jet. Sometimes 'who dies' isn't my choice. This isn't a business you make friends in."  
  
"It isn't?" Jet's grin betrayed his shocked voice as he leaned forward a bit in his seat. "Too bad I won't be able to tell anyone that."  
  
"Yeah," Ron chuckled. "Too bad."   
  
Click!   
  
The confusion that followed came in a spray of glass and flaring glock-fire. Jet stopped his feet on the floor and tossed himself back in the chair, tipping it back and sending him tumbling behind his blockade as the Hammerhead crashed through the floor-to-ceiling windowpanes behind Ron. His artillery shot off in all direction as the Hammerhead pressed him into the desk, popping his head like a balloon as it was smashed into the top.  
  
Oh well, so much for salvaging the rich, brownwood desk. Right now, Jet had to worry about the armada that was about to pour into the room through the frosted glass door. Shadows could be seen floating by -- Jet thought it was a dumb idea, after all, secrecy demanded the ability to hide things, right? The door was reduced to icy splinters as the first dead man crashed through, he himself plugged into Swiss cheese.  
  
There was no damned conglomeration; at least with the ISSP. Ron wouldn't have asked about his participation if that were true. Ron only had his suspicions, and knowing him, would have told Jet everything there was if he even thought Jet was with them. The ol' Second File, Jet murmured as he blew some fellow's arm off, you never were the trustworthy group.  
  
What remained, Jet reasoned as he plugged another crony, was that the ISSP was cooperating with someone in the two groups. What also remained was that Jet could use some serious  
backing up.  
  
--  
  
Kenic glanced over to his partner-in-idiocy and grimly sighed. "Sorry?"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
  
Below them, Spike sat in the Swordfish, glancing down as crystal waters skimmed further down. He grimaced a bit when the sunlight caught the undisturbed surface and flashed him a blinding one but quickly rubbed the spots from his eyes. Yawning briefly, he glanced up to make sure Kenic and Jamison were still tied down. So he couldn't take them to the ISSP for an actual reward; that was out of the question. The Second File would step in and just drag them back to the drawing board. If they were going to stop a little mass corruption, Kenic and Jamison would have to be able to squirm under their hands.  
  
The plan was on the fly, sure, but it beat wasting any more time while Jet sat dead in a blue plush chair somewhere. Spike figured it would be a blue plush chair, they all have those kinds of chairs. Maybe an oak desk, too. Never mahogany, that's just out of style.   
  
With the knowledge that a small-scale mutiny was occurring under the syndicate's noses, Spike had figured it might behoove them the just show the two tech-runners their little banes. Once that was out of the way the second file would hang out in the open and the bounty hunters could keep Jamison and Kenic for the exact purpose of their original intent.  
  
Self-sabotage. Only this time, the Second File would be the only victim.  
  
Right now, Spike figured that Jet already had himself in way over his shiny little head. "Yo, Faye, you got a trace on the Hammerhead yet?"  
  
"Why am I tracing him? I thought you were!" Spike sighed into the com, wishing once more that he hadn't wasted his last pack on that damn kid and his stupid frisbee.   
  
"I don't even know why I bothered to ask," he muttered, switching channels until Ed's screeching came to be. "Ed."  
  
"MRRRAAHHHHHHHH!!!"  
  
"Ed."  
  
"BLLHHHAAAAARRRHH!!!"  
  
"Ed."  
  
YYAAAAHHHHHH-es? Edward here!" Spike gave a grim smile, waving to the radio.   
  
"You got a trace on Jet?"  
  
"As always!" came her less than clear reply, a brief flash of snow coming in before the static cleaned up a bit. "He's at the Iron Hand!"  
  
"I'd shoot you if I could, Ed. The Iron Hand has a few stations around here. He could be in any building on Mars."  
  
"Well they're running a scramble," Ed coolly explained. "One minute a single comes from right in front of me, the next its on the other side of the planet. It'll take me a few minutes the filter it all."  
  
Spike grimaced. "Great."  
  
"Uh, Spike."  
  
He looked over at the rising Redtail as Faye's voice rang over the auxiliary channel. "Not now, I'm getting a trace."  
  
"I've got him," she said flatly.  
  
He shook his head. "Couldn't have. Ed said the channels are scrambled."  
  
"No, trust me, I have him."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I can see the Hammerhead sticking out of the side of that tall, smoking building right there."  
  
Spike stole a glance forward to see the rising billows above and the rattle of gunfire shattering glass below where the Hammerhead pushed itself into the building. ". . . Fuck." He glanced over to Faye and gave her the thumbs up as they swooped down to go level with the floor. Peering in, they saw the flood of the dead and living and then, behind a rattled desk, the Jet. The old cowboy waved and hopped up into his ship before the Swordfish and Redtail opened fire, nearly blowing out the other side of the building. The two crafts blasted reverse thrusters and flew up, the screams of Kenic and Jamison ringing down as the Hammerhead pulled back and out. The three turned and went off.  
  
"There's no conglomerate," Jet called as the Hammerhead sped forward a bit.  
  
"Not quite," Spike called back over the com as he wrapped on the cockpits top. "I'll explain on the way but we're making one more stop before we hit home."  
  
--  
  
"C'mon, snack up you two." Jet munched down on the remainder of his hot dog, pouring back the last of his Pippu before he moved on to eying the untouched food of their captives. Faye made a face at Jet and Spike's eating habits and simply went back to sipping her own drink. Irished up, of course.  
  
Kenic simply shook his head as Spike shrugged, snatching up his meal. Jamison on the other hand threw caution to the wind and devoured his in just minutes. Spike did him one better, devouring his third in just seconds.  
  
"Don't tell me this was our stop," Jet murmured, eying the two he recalled picking up less than a week ago. "We have food on the Bebop."  
  
Faye shook her head, pointing a lazy finger to their captives. "Our next stop is the Black Ice," she said plainly. Jamison squeaked. "We decided that these two can become of use since we can't give them back to the ISSP."  
  
"We're having Ed do a hideout search for them." Spike grinned. "Jet, my friend, why can't you make buddy-buddy with all the Syndicates?"  
  
"Not all of them used to work with me. Some of us just went bad--"  
  
"And some of you just kill for money." Faye teased.  
  
Jet grunted, snatching her drink from her. "I'm a cowboy, not a mercenary."  
  
Spike shrugged, looking at his wrist com as a small beacon of green went off. "The money's good, either way. What have you got for me, Ed?"  
  
"Ahhh, a puzzle!!"  
  
Spike's heart sank. "Uh oh."  
  
"To find out more, does Ed implore, you leave the store and go next door! They do the plight, they aren't too bright, there is some spite but keep it right! Bye bye bye for now!"  
  
Spike looked up to Jet with no hint of a happy face. "'What the hell' doesn't do this situation justice. You got a clue?"  
  
Jamison looked up. "Next door? no way. . ." Despite the advisement and guns shown to him before warning him not to leave, Jamison was on his feet, his thick frame plodding towards the door. Spike didn't call after the blue-flannelled pain and just turned to Kenic.   
  
"Does your friend suffer any damages? To the brain, perhaps?"  
  
"Uh, Spike," Faye murmured. "He made it out the door." What followed was a frightful scream as Spike and Jet were on their feet, racing forward and out the entryway. Prepared to give a short chase, the hunters were surprised to find their search to have ended before it started. On his knees before the monstrous black facade next door was Jamison, somewhere near crying.   
  
Spike glanced up above the white awnings and smirked. "Oh, we're here." Peeking back into the hotdog shop, he instructed Faye to watch Kenic and the two raced in, dragging Jamison along for an unwanted ride. Back in the shop, Faye slid her drink Kenic's way with an air of passiveness.  
  
"Loosen up, I'm not gonna kill you and I'm not going to have sex with you."  
  
--  
  
Spike settled back into the chair with a half grin as he glanced over to Jet. "Green chairs? Well shut my mouth, man, I had them pegged for blue." Jet didn't give him a word, just watched the back door for the rep's return. Needless to say, they were quite surprised when they were told of Jamison's, who was quaking next to Spike, shady activities. The office wasn't too dissimilar to the other, bar for a surprisingly clean, white shag carpet. This was not where they did their bloodshed.  
  
"They seemed mighty happy to see you, Jamison. Too bad we didn't bring your buddy." Spike prodded once more as the man was reduced to the mannerisms of a scared child, shivering sporadically here and there. He even, much to Spike's delight, whimpered a few times at even the slightest creak of a door -- even when the door didn't actually creak. Ninety-nine percent of the time it was Spike leaning back in his chair.  
  
Then, around twenty minutes after being shown in by a buxom while woman with shades and all that jazz, did a door really creak open. In stepped a fairly broad shouldered fellow, a cool black suit doing his frame justice while the hinting rolls around his neck suggested that he was beginning to care less about his own appearance. He took a seat, casting a still cold glower towards Jamison shivering form.   
  
"So, treason season, is it?" He was gruff-voiced man, reminding Jet of a few partners he once had and also reminding him a bit of Frankenstein's monster in the old Karloff films. God, those had to be ancient. "That's what makes it such a cut throat business, boys."  
  
"You're preaching to the choir, my friend," Jet murmured. "We know the game. Gotta know it to be able to undermine it, right?" Jet chuckled for just a moment before Spike slid in.  
  
"We're here just to collect for information and Jamison, here." He grinned. "There's more we can tell you." They knew it was a risky bid. Going into the place and pretty much offering the valuables for the price of their lives but it was all they had to work with. Besides, the ol' "more to know" ploy seemed to work like a charm.  
  
"Name your price," the rep said plainly, turning to a knock at one of the side doors. The lackey behind it didn't even wait for a breath of conformation before bursting in with a telecommunicator.   
  
"Boss! Take a look at THIS! Wired in over an illegal channel -- it's some sort of underground news break!"  
  
Seemingly disinterested, the older fellow turned from the bounty hunters to address his more half-witted employee. "Why should I care?"  
  
"It's about the Iron Hand, you know, the Syndicates these cowboys were talking about." Glancing down at it, the rep looked as a zipcraft and a starship blasted all hell out a 34-story building. The Mars landscape in the background was nice, at least. All in the room took notice, however, as an anchorman's voice over made itself known.  
  
"In a startling move made by, what underground news assumes, another Syndicate, the Iron Hand was rocked with gunfire. Ronald Averson, head rep for the syndicate, was riddled with bullet holes, presumably by rival Black Ice, in a startling move to upset Syndicate relations." Spike barely flinched as the rep behind the desk nearly ripped the monitor to shreds. "It is speculated that the Black Ice will make its retaliation in mere hours."  
  
It was still possible for Spike and Jet to escape with their skin, after all, they had no idea that the pilot for one of the two crafts responsible sat across from them. Jamison however would probably be gutted. After all, it was his fault, really. If he hadn't been so gung-ho with Kenic in trying to destabilize the Syndicates and get into some business with the ISSP, Jet wouldn't have had to demolish half of that building. So Jamison would die, there was no question, and Jet and Spike could PROBABLY get their way out of the scrape. Well, until the channel somehow got a perfect shot of Spike's stupid grin.  
  
The communicator wasn't even on the floor in a heap before Jet, Spike and Jamison had guns pointed their way. "Looks like these cowboys bargained for way more than what they're about to get," the rep muttered as his lackey flew out of the room. Jet mumbled something about 'not again' while Spike glanced his way.  
  
"Got a cigarette, Jet?"  
  
The Black Dog sighed and shook his head with a small grin. "Fresh out."  
  
--  
  
Edward sat back on the couch with a bored frown. "No fun for Edward." With a disgusted sigh, she back flipped off the armrest and landed on her hands, walking on her palms over to the telecommunicator. "Faye-faye!" It was seconds before the purple-tressed obstacle made her bored appearance, pausing just for a moment to tell Kenic to shut his trap.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!"  
  
Faye winced and turned back to the communicator, a small grimace on her face. "Yeah, no kidding. What do you want, Ed?" The flame headed firecracker just laughed with a bright, toothy smile, waving with a small remainder of a giggle at her womanlier accomplice. Faye visibly sighed and weakly waved back.  
  
"Ed bored!"  
  
"Yeah, well Faye's on a job. What do you need?"  
  
"Ed bored!!"  
  
"What am I supposed to do about it?!" Faye huffed, nearly standing to confront Edward as though she stood before her.  
  
"Uh. . . Ed BORED!!"  
  
Faye sighed, readjusting herself in her seat as she stared dryly back at the kid. "Goodbye Ed." The picture clicked off, leaving Edward just a little more pleased than when she started off.  
  
  
Back in the hotdog shop, Faye held up her mobile unit as her brow furrowed just a bit. "Call waiting?"  
  
--  
  
"What's the story, Jet?" Spike muttered as his older companion shook his head.   
  
"Faye's not answering."  
  
"Plan B?"  
  
"You get Jamison."  
  
"Deal."  
  
Being experienced men of action, a "plan B" came without question. For even the smallest job, one, if not both of they were formulating a "plan B". After all, without "plan Bs" people end up in the situation as of current. Eying the gun-totting rep before them, they were almost pleased to see his bewildered face as the cowboys dropped their arms despite his insistence to not even blink. They both followed similar motions, right hands dropping to their hands to their sides. Quick as a flash were small explosives in both hands, produced from pockets and jackets. Jet readied a small firearm as his mortar clocked the rep in the head, sending him down while Spike sent one bouncing into the side office. A small collection of cries erupted from the hall before it and the blast behind the desk exploded in white flares.   
  
"Flash bombs?!" Jamison cried before he was snatched off his feet by Spike's hand as they both went racing for the door. There was a quick succession of beeping before a long tone sounded behind them as the door was flung wide with a bang. Luckily the halls were still empty. The rush of feet at one end, however, told them to make the rest of their business quick.   
  
"Not for long!" Spike exclaimed as he whipped another one down the opposite end of the hall. A bright flash went off as the three raced for the opposite stairwell. "What floor are we on, Jet?"  
  
"Seventh!"  
  
"We're out on the third!!"  
  
"What?!" Jamison's interrogations weren't answered as he was nearly flying in their wake down the stairwell. Spike took the time to glance over the whitewashed railing as at a group coming up from ground level.   
  
"Make that the fourth!" Dropping one more flash bomb where they once stood, the three bolted though a floor's door and into a rather clean looking office level. A few looks went their way before the simply ran for a window at the end of the aisle.  
  
CRASH!  
  
"Oh my GAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!" The three dropped like graceful stones down to a rather clean sidewalk as a few explosions rocked the mid-level of the black-marble skyscraper. A rain of metal and glass followed them down as they crashed through a while canopy laid out above the ground level street. A hard landing followed, but they two were grateful that the plan B left them with their heads on.  
  
And their clothing. There were a few plan Bs that were better left to the angels.  
  
"C'mon!" Spike yelled into the shop.  
  
"Faye!" Jet followed up with, chasing after as both Kenic and Faye hopped to their feet. Another explosion shook the wall as girders and marble dropped from the sky.   
  
"Oh, right," Faye murmured, tossing the cashier a small stack. "I was their backup. . ."  
  
--  
  
"Talk about a blessing in disguise," Faye mumbled as she and here fellow cowboys walked away from the brig. "With the two Syndicates already at war, now, the ISSP is a sitting duck. How are we going to handle them?"  
  
Spike grinned as he took a seat on the bridge. Leaning over a control panel he reset the Bebop coordinates for ISSP headquarters. Jet gave him the thumbs up and exited. "I've got Ed on that part of the job. This whole virus shenanigan gave me an idea. Using some pass codes I got out of our buddies, Ed's gonna pump the Second File with so much system corruption that it will shut down for days."  
  
"Sounds easy."  
  
He shook his head. "It's not. We can't just hit em and let that be that. To decommission the Second File entirely, we have to take it to a secure part of the ISSP so it can be dealt with by itself."  
  
"That doesn't sound easy."   
  
"That's because such a secure faction doesn't exist. And even if it did, the resulting internal politics would take the place out entirely." He stretched a bit. "And that's just no fun."  
  
"No fun?"  
  
"So," he said plainly, "how do you suppose we work around this?" Faye merely shrugged. Spike nearly grinned. "We take it and them out ourselves. The instant we get our bounty, they are sunk."  
  
--  
  
A short redheaded woman sat in her blue secretary's chair behind her black metal desk. She yawned, a few lines of aging shown in the stretch marks around her mouth and eyes. Rubbing them for a minute, she blinked a bit as the long work hours began to take their toll. She glanced down and adjusted her slightly disheveled greenish ISSP uniform, tucking a stray fold back into the over-belt. She smoothed out her skirt and lifted her hands to readjust her hat before her contact-influenced red eyes caught an orange light on her security console. A message popped up on its own. Reading over it, she gasped and went knocking wildly on her boss' door as she looked back over her shoulder at the smiling icon that filled her screen. Quickly, offices on all levels at the HQ had smiling computer terminals and the cubicle inhabitants had very ill stomachs. The Second File was first to go, naturally, but soon, all other faction began falling, too.  
  
A tall bald man, mid forties, ran forward through the chaos-engulfed corridors, a black suit jacket tucked under his arm. He pushed his secretary out of the way and raced though his door. His own computer, even while being partitioned and separated from the network, smiled back at him with Ed's mastermind able to not only decommission the Second File, which he'd already put in the motion to eradicate immediately for treasonous activity, but also to simply 'restart' the ISSP from a step it may never be able to recover from.  
  
Stricken pale and blanched, he shakily tapped a button to answer a message that waited on his personal machine. Sitting, he recognized the reality of the end of his future and was quick to root around for his spare gun as a message played in the background.  
  
"Hey Andy, it's Jet. Been a while since we talked -- I'm glad I didn't go to you sooner when I first needed an informant. Would have been a shame to see you dead, too. Not that you probably aren't considering doing yourself in. After all, being one of the top boys at ISSP, you're probably thinking about just how fucked you are, right now. Man, I remember back when you used to be my partner -- seems like I had a lot of partners -- but I think you were one of my favorites. Always talking about how you'd be up there at the top, trying to stop internal AND external corruption. I always knew you were in the ISSP for the good of it, Andy. Sorry we've gotta chat this way, though, but it's the only way. I'd like to hear what you ended up doing to those involved in the Second File -- I'm sure you've already done what you had to with those guys.  
  
"This is what internal politics will do to you. Absolute power and even the potential for absolute power corrupt absolutely. I suppose we'd both figured that some mess like this would eventually happen, be that I was with the ISSP or not. At least nothing like this will happen again, hell, maybe the ISSP is down for good. Knowing who I know is responsible, it may very well be.  
  
"And maybe I'm wrong, maybe this wasn't the right answer. . . maybe what rises from the ISSP's ashes will be a power that's nothing but the evil that drove the Second File. If that's the case, well, that's just one more demon in my life that I'll have to do battle with. It's too bad, though, that the ISSP will potentially be gone. Sometimes, you guys paid us really well. So much for the life of a cowboy. Later, Andy."  
  
  
  
Later, Black Dog.  
  
  
--  
  
A little weird, I know, and a little hard to follow, maybe. But I'm sort of leaving the door open for the potential of another Bebop fic centering around the destabilization of the ISSP. Hey, maybe this will be a trilogy ^_^ And maybe not. Internal politics strike everywhere, and here's a scenario that can really fuck ya up. It's happening, too, just gotta know where to look. Is this a commentary? Nah, just a new try for a decent though half done closure.  
  



End file.
